I can see you now: despondent, lonely, doubtless trundling unlikely amounts of ice cream into your trembling food hole. You reach weakly for your notebook/laptop/what have you in a feeble attempt to convince yourself that you are still a writer. You hand falls limp and instead plunges into a bag of Doritos. The blue kind—blue, the color of true depression.
“There’s no writerly community,” you moan, “what’s this ‘writing’ to come to, anyway? If only there were some way that my talents could be energized, turning from a private affair to a captivating, electrifying spectacle that could grab a room and let them know the off-the-chain mad awesome shit that I could drop. Oh, were this world different! I guess I’ll just stay here and watch more Doctor Who. I wonder why all the aliens go straight to London.” Your soul aches for something more. Something like WRITE CLUB.
It’s been a long time since you felt fulfilled. It’s been a long time since the magic of language filled your heart and you lifted your twisted arms to the heavens, vibrating like some sort of cosmic tuning fork with those mystic frequencies of joy and beauty. I can make it happen again. I know where your passion for literature and creativity comes crashing into your physical world like a goddamn magic missile. But you don’t need to roll your d4 to know this magic missile’s a critical hit—I’m talking about
THE EVER RELIABLE
THE PHILOLOGICAL (I’LL GRANT THIS LAST RHYME WAS A STRETCH)